The Village

It was early October, and the old, well-traveled road was strewn with leaves of brown, auburn, green, and nearly every color in between, with even more leaves ever-slowly piling on.

The motley trees had laid out their best carpet in anticipation of the coming winter and now calmly bathed in the last, warm rays of today’s sun. A cold breeze blew between them, carrying a bracing, earthy aroma that heralded the dark-grey clouds brewing on the horizon, just over the mountains.

Leaves danced on the wind, flying everywhere, swirling around and around—but mostly into the faces of road's travelers, as if purposefully showing off.

One of them took a deep breath and drank in the cool, refreshing autumn air with a smile.

“Master, are we planning on camping tonight as well?” he asked cheerfully.

His companion didn’t answer, instead she swatted some bothersome leaves away while reaching discreetly into the pocket of her coat. She jiggled the coin purse there. The barely noticeable clinking made her sigh.

“It bloody sure looks like it,” she mumbled.

“Master?”

“Nothing… we’ll see when we get there,” she replied absentmindedly. “Hopefully it won’t be like the last village.”

“Right, as you say.” He nodded, taking a moment to mull something over. “Strictly speaking, wasn’t the last one a hamlet?”

There was a slight pause and a sigh.

“I distinctly remember them yelling, ‘Get the fuck out of our village, you blighters!’” She gave him an annoyed look. “Maybe you should’ve stayed to argue semantics?”

Either the memory or the remark itself made him fall silent. They continued down the winding road without sharing a word for a while. Still, it was evident a thought troubled him.

“Perhaps… Perhaps I should stay behind this time?” He broke the silence, hoping for a reply.

Only the wind had something to say on the matter.

“Maybe it’s best if I wait for you down the road? Are we close? I could—”

She cut him off with a wave.

“Stop fretting over the possibility of a bunch of barmy twats screaming bloody murder again. We’ll manage like we always do. We just need to keep our heads and remain inconspicuous. That’s it.”

A faint but familiar ring could be heard in the distance.

“And yes, we’re close,” she added.

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A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

THE TOLL

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The slow, melancholy toll of a brass bell echoed through the trees and into the hilltops. The metallic clang grew more pronounced as the woods receded, revealing a modest village nestled snugly atop a hillside overlooking a small lake.

Puffs of smoke rose above the chimneys of dainty houses which, although made of drab stone, felt homely and welcoming. At the center of them all, on the highest hill in the village, stood the church.

The sound of its rhythmic, mournful bell mingled with the lively jingling of smaller bells, accompanied by sporadic mooing and baaing as livestock made their way home. You could hear the odd shout or curse from shepherds, or a grumble here and there from field workers returning—eager for a strong drink and some well-earned rest.

Old busybodies had left their roosts and now perched in their usual spots, engrossed in other people’s activities or yesterday’s gossip.

Women were busy with herding of their own—fetching the children for supper, who, in turn, were trying to make the most of what was left of the day’s sunlight.

A tired mother stepped out of her small hut, the sleeves of her linen blouse rolled up, flour dusting her arms to the elbows. She scanned the road with a scowl, wiping her hands on her apron as she searched for her own troublemaker among the other children.

Spotting him, she strode over and yanked him by the ear, only then noticing the newcomers. With a worried look, she gripped her son’s arm tightly before hurrying him away.

An interesting pair they were—especially to any passersby. Under wary eyes and nervous murmurs, they made their way through the village.

Past the old smithy they went, the smith still hammering away at his work, though he spared them a mistrustful glance. Past the bakery, where the scent of something freshly baked still lingered in the air. Past the old busybodies and rambunctious children, who followed them with mouths agape.

Finally, they stopped at the village square, facing the church.

As their escort of children melted away—mostly collected by their mothers or shooed off by nervous villagers—the two travelers took a moment to look around and get their bearings.

One of them pointed to a building on the left, where a large sign hung above the door.

“Here, Master—I think that might be a store.”

“Mhm,” the other replied, only half paying attention. From under the wide brim of her capotain, she scanned the area cautiously, more concerned with the glances the locals were casting their way. She spotted a building to the right with a hanging sign that read Seven Swigs Inn—gaudy, yet pleasingly festive.

“And I’ve found us an inn. The only inn here, I’d imagine.”

“Should we see if they’d be willing to accommodate us?” he asked.

“Let’s save that little gamble for last,” his companion replied. She patted down her long coat, shaking loose miles of dust from the road, then pulled out her coin purse and rummaged through its meager contents.

“C’mon. Supplies first.” She gestured for him to follow, and they turned toward the store. She mulled over her mental shopping list as they walked, oblivious to the faint shouting coming from inside the building.

“Waxed paper!” she exclaimed, as if waking from a dream. “If I happen to forget again, be sure to remind me. Soggy bread is bloody dis—”

A man burst out of the store, stumbled, and fell in the dirt at their feet, clutching his head, which was bleeding profusely. The sight startled a few bystanders, who quickly scattered.

“God strewth! Blimey! Not again!” the wounded man shouted, rising unsteadily and dashing between the two outsiders.

They stared after him, dumbfounded, as he staggered down the road, yelling, “Sergeant! Sergeant!” He ran past the church, still hollering, until he vanished from view.

“Riiight...” The traveler turned toward the store and furrowed her brow. She gave her coin pouch a long, hard look, weighing something in her mind. Then she smiled, pocketed it, and motioned for her companion to follow.

The door of the store had been left ajar after the man’s violent expulsion. She stepped closer and peeked inside.

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